


The Night is Young, or Five times Crowley made an invitation and one time he didn't need to

by somber_malachite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5 Times, Alcohol, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), First Kiss, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Inexperienced Crowley, M/M, Missing Scene, Podfic Welcome, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, what happened after the bus ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 18:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19234855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somber_malachite/pseuds/somber_malachite
Summary: 1862 to 2019. In which Crowley wears his heart on his sleeve, and Aziraphale tries not to notice. Featuring naps, YouTube, and that bus ride.





	The Night is Young, or Five times Crowley made an invitation and one time he didn't need to

**Author's Note:**

> I first read Good Omens in 2004 and have reread it many times since then, so while this is mostly based on the recent Amazon series, there are a few things I've taken in part or whole from book canon. I'm sure there may be inconsistencies with both timelines, but let's say this occurs in a parallel universe.
> 
> Also, I feel compelled to share that the first draft of this was written with "Want You In My Room" by Carly Rae Jepsen stuck in my head. So if you'd like a soundtrack, there you are.

**1: May 1862**

The anticipation was getting to Aziraphale. He and Crowley had to travel quite a bit for their work, of course, but it wasn’t usual for them to go more than a few decades without checking in.

Virtue was ever-vigilant, he’d told himself as he searched through his desk for the address Crowley had scribbled down some thirty years before. It was only right that he should at least see if Crowley was still in London. It was only natural to want to know. Keeping one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer, etc.

And on the other hand, he had been thinking of bringing Crowley a small gift, just to make sure that things were even between them after Paris.

And so he found himself in a hansom cab, then knocking on the door of a terrace house in Mayfair. When a minute or so had gone by without an answer, he checked the address once more and unlocked the door with a gesture.

“Crowley?” he called out, noting briefly the tidiness of the parlour, and choosing not to linger too long on a sculpture, just to the right of the fireplace, showing two winged figures engaged in some kind of struggle. A stack of correspondence was smoking faintly on the desk, and Aziraphale did his best not to look at this either. He placed the gift he’d brought— a potted Sanseveria plant— by the window, and then climbed the stairs.

When he reached the bedroom, he was greeted with a most unusual sight.

“Crowley,” he whispered, then gently prodded the demon’s shoulder through the thick duvet. “Crowley, are you alright?”

Crowley’s eyelids fluttered, then he groaned and rolled over so that his back was to Aziraphale. He mumbled something into the pillow.

“What was that?”

“I said,” came Crowley’s voice, slightly clearer, “what the heaven are you doing here, angel?”

“I came to check on you,” Aziraphale told him. “And I brought you a gift.”

Crowley shifted so that he was facing him again, and opened one eye fully. His mouth was twitching like he was trying to contain a laugh. “A gift?”

“Are you ill?”

“’M sleeping, angel. You should try it. Quite nice. No wonder humans...” He paused to yawn, then continued: “... no wonder humans spend so much time doing it. What day is it, anyway?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Thursday the what?”

“Thursday the 15th,” Aziraphale said. And then to be safe, he added, “of May. 1862.”

Crowley groaned again, then began to sit up, eyes still closed. “Twenty-six days, then,” he muttered. “That’s a new record.”

“Is this— is it— an experiment in sloth?”

“You could call it that.” Crowley raised his shoulders in a shrug, his movements languid and serpentine.

Aziraphale waited for further clarification, but none came.

“It’s good you’ve come, angel,” Crowley was saying now, pressing the heels of his palms against his closed eyes. There was a dangerous familiarity simmering in his voice. “Been meaning to talk to you about something important. But we must keep it hush hush, of course. If you have a minute, why don’t you stay for a cup of tea, and we can—”

“Actually, I do need to be off,” Aziraphale said, wondering (not for the first time) just what he thought he was doing here, in a demon’s home— or perhaps more accurately, a demon’s den. A demon’s lair? “I’ve much work to be done. And I assume the same is true for you.”

Crowley’s eyes were both wide open now, bright yellow in the early evening gloom leaking through the drawn curtains. “Right,” he said. “Well. I’ll send you a note, arrange a time.”

Aziraphale nodded once. “You’ll need to water the plant,” he said on his way out.

  
**2: March 1983**

Aziraphale was supposed to be leaving for America at the end of the month,[1] and of course Crowley had managed to pawn off a number of small temptations that needed doing on that side of the pond. Aziraphale had resolved to perform them only half-heartedly (as was his habit when this kind of thing came up) but he still must have looked very disappointed about it, because Crowley had almost immediately produced two tickets to the ballet.

Crowley picked him up from the shop, opening the door of the Bentley for him with a wave of his hand. The ballet was _Orpheus_ , and Aziraphale enjoyed it immensely, although he tried not to read too much into the subject matter. Dinner afterwards was Thai, and he ordered a noodle dish, followed by fresh mango and coconut sticky rice. Aziraphale hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult to choose restaurants in America, without Crowley around to make recommendations.

Crowley had finished eating[2] and was on his third Singha when he asked if Aziraphale wanted to come round to his, the night still being young and all, and anyway he’d just put in a new sound system and started a CD collection.

“Seeing as it might be a while until our next...” Crowley waved his hand vaguely at the table. “This.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, smiling politely. “I think we’d better not.” He anticipated the subtle shift in Crowley’s expression a moment before it occurred.

Aziraphale knew, of course, about Crowley’s— well, Crowley’s affection. He knew the depth and the breadth of it, at least, and he had his suspicions about its character. He’d also decided long ago that it wasn’t his place to extinguish Crowley’s feelings, but it also wouldn’t do to encourage them any more than necessary. This was, after all, a dangerous game that they were playing.

“Maybe when you come back, then?” Crowley was saying now, looking over his shoulder for their waiter and signalling for him to split their bill.

  
**3: November 2006**

“Angel, please,” Crowley said, walking into the bookshop and apparently not bothering with a traditional greeting, just jumping straight into a request. “I need someone to come look at this and you’re the only one who’ll understand.”

“What is it?”

“It’s on the Internet, but I can drive you over to my flat and show you on my PC—”

But Aziraphale, Crowley was apparently surprised to learn, had a computer tucked away in a corner of the back room.

“You know, I _have_ seen the Internet before, my dear,” Aziraphale told him. “I know what kinds of things go on over there.”

Crowley was standing beside him, and nudged the chair lightly. “I bet you haven’t seen this.”

The page loaded, and the logo in the top left corner read: YouTube.

“People can upload videos of whatever they want,” Crowley was explaining.

“I do know about pornography,” Aziraphale assured him calmly.

Crowley took off his sunglasses, presumably so that Aziraphale wouldn’t miss his frown. He began typing something into the search bar. “No, it’s not— look, I came up with this thing called a ‘fail compilation’, and see here, see, it’s just clips of people accidentally hurting themselves, or destroying their property, and you’re supposed to laugh at it—”

“That sounds terrible.”

Crowley nodded emphatically and thumped a fist on the back of Aziraphale’s chair. “Yes! Yes, that’s the point, it’s pure schadenfreude, it degrades empathy, and the videos get shared from human to human, they can send them along by email or show their friends. Nobody Down There got it, but _you_ do, don’t you?”

Aziraphale sighed.[3] “I suppose I should try to think up something to cancel out your evil influence.”

“Evil influence! Exactly. Please, thwart me. This is thwart-worthy stuff. I can barely stand to watch them myself.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at that last admission and watched Crowley’s smile falter. He put a finger on Crowley’s wrist. “May I have the, er...?”

“Oh, the mouse?” Crowley said, pulling his hand back from the aforementioned device. “Yeah, of course.”

Aziraphale considered the homepage, then clicked through a few links. He picked up a pen and began to make some rather nonsensical notes. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he hoped he would know it when he saw it.

“Will you put this in your next report?” asked Crowley, as he draped himself over the back of Aziraphale’s chair and rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek and hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose I’ll have to.”

A gentle wave of emotion was rolling off of Crowley, warm and bright. Aziraphale didn’t mention it; he didn’t want to embarrass him.

  
**4: September 2012**

Their work with the young Antichrist kept them quite busy, and the Arrangement had never been more useful. When they weren’t with the Dowlings, one of them was almost invariably out of London, taking care of some blessing or temptation while the other got a bit of much-needed downtime. When there happened to be a lull in both their workloads, Crowley would invite himself over to the shop, and they’d have a few drinks in the back room to celebrate their progress towards saving the world.

And that was alright, Aziraphale thought. The shop was safe; it was his home turf. If Crowley wanted to show up unannounced, then Aziraphale would happily play host.

But still, it seemed, Crowley couldn’t help himself, because one crisp autumn evening, he slipped out to the garden to tell Aziraphale about some lovely Brontë first editions he’d picked up for his flat, chosen primarily for how they’d look on the shelves.

“Is this some kind of practical joke?” Aziraphale asked, who knew that Crowley liked that kind of thing.[4]

“No, really. You can come see them if you want,” Crowley told him, a faint nervous hiss in his voice. “And I’d be happy to sell them to you for a fair price. Satan knows I’m not going to read them.”

“I think we both have bigger things to worry about than rare books,” Aziraphale said, although it pained him to say so.

And Crowley had the audacity to pout, which, if Aziraphale was being really honest, pained him too.

“Don’t you have nannying to do?” Aziraphale asked him, ending the conversation.

  
**5: August 2019, Saturday**

They worked out the prophecy on the bus ride back to London, sober enough to come up with a plan, but drunk enough that the plan was truly ridiculous.

“Are you sure we won’t explode?” Aziraphale asked, his thoughts slowly unfuzzing as the wine wore off.

“I never sssaid that,” said Crowley, whose hissing indicated he was still a bit past tipsy. “It’sss a real possssibility.”

“I suppose Agnes wouldn’t steer us wrong.”

“That’sss right, angel,” Crowley said. “Have a little faith.”

They sat in silence for another few minutes, and Aziraphale wondered how differently this day would have gone had he never spoken to the serpent in the Garden all those millenia ago.

“If we’re going to do thisss,” Crowley said as the bus neared Hyde Park, “you really ought to ssstay at mine tonight. I’ll head to the shop in the morning.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale said, and he did his best not to seem startled when Crowley’s head dropped carelessly onto his shoulder.

Crowley’s new flat— well, new to Aziraphale— was rather sparsely decorated, but there were the books he’d mentioned before, and there again was that peculiar statue. There were the terrified houseplants Aziraphale had heard so much about over the years. There was the sound system (curiously missing speakers).

They didn’t explode after all, and once they’d done the switch, Crowley excused himself to sleep. A well-deserved reward, Aziraphale thought, for— well— for _contributing_ to the saving of the world.[5] But then Crowley lingered in the bedroom doorway, looking back at him, and it was startling for Aziraphale to see such open desire on his own features— not lust exactly, more like a simple unconcealed longing, with a dark thread of regret running through it. And yes, it was tempting to go to Crowley, of course, that was the whole point, especially after the events of the last few days, but things were far from settled now, and if someone managed to see through their disguises—

“Er,” said Crowley in Aziraphale’s voice, “did you want something to eat? Before I got caught up in Armageddon, I was teaching myself how to make omelettes.”[6]

“I’m alright,” Aziraphale assured him. “Have a good night.”

When he was sure Crowley had gone to sleep, he paced through the office, practicing expressions and gestures he’d watched for six thousand years. By dawn, the houseplants quivered when he passed them, and that, he thought, was as good a sign as any.

  
**+1: August 2019, Sunday**

“You know,” said Aziraphale, pressing his napkin to the corner of his mouth, “after all this excitement, I think I’d rather like to try a nap.”

Crowley, who’d previously been leaning back in his chair so that it balanced on two legs, nearly tipped over. On any other day, Aziraphale would have stifled a chuckle and simply asked if Crowley was alright, which no doubt would have prompted some sarcastic remark. But today, Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley did too, once he’d regained his balance.

It was half three when they left the Ritz and a quarter to four when Crowley pulled into his designated parking space.

“There’s a lot of things I would have missed in this world if it had gone up in flames yesterday,” Crowley said as they entered the flat. “And sleep is certainly in the top ten.”

“What are the other nine?”

“Ah...” Crowley took his hands from his pockets and summoned a pair of pyjamas, striped in cream and gold. He held them out to Aziraphale. “Well, the Bentley, of course. And I quite like fog, you know, in general. Good for atmosphere. Can’t forget the dolphins, of course. Standup comedy... Oh, yes, alcohol... And, er...”

With a wave of one hand, Aziraphale changed into the pyjamas (changing the print to tartan while he was at it), leaving his other clothes folded neatly on Crowley’s desk.

“You know, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, looking at him meaningfully over his sunglasses. “I’ve been meaning to say something.”

And Aziraphale, who was feeling rather daring in light of everything that had happened over the last few days, simply leaned forward and kissed him.

Crowley drew in a sharp breath and went very still for a moment. But soon enough he took hold of Aziraphale’s shoulders and deepened the kiss, using his lips and tongue with such unrestrained vigour that it almost seemed like— but _certainly not_ , Aziraphale thought. It had been six thousand years, after all. Aziraphale’s curiosity about human acts of physical intimacy had got the better of him after only a century on Earth, and he had always assumed that the same had happened for Crowley.[7]

“I know that you love me,” Aziraphale said, quickly drawing the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Well,” Crowley said. His glasses were askew and his lips were slightly swollen. “I mean. I, uh, was going to say that you’re my best friend? And, er, I’m grateful that we were both sent to the Garden back in the Beginning. Wouldn’t have wanted to avert the Apocalypse with anyone else. When I thought that I'd lost you, after the fire, I— I might have given up.” He threaded the fingers of one hand through his hair.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Are those sentiments mutually exclusive with love?”

“Guess not, now that you mention it,” Crowley said, adjusting his glasses. “So what inspired that kiss?”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, willing himself not to blush. “Haven’t you been trying to seduce me?”

Crowley’s mouth twitched. “Not intentionally. Have you felt seduced?”

“Well, there were those books, my dear boy, and all those meals together—”

“That was just because I _like_ you, angel. Nothing untoward about it.”

“Was I untoward just now?”

Crowley considered this for a moment. “No, I reckon that was perfectly toward.”

“Let’s just go to bed,” Aziraphale muttered, and then added, “I meant to _sleep_.”

“Yeah, of course,” said Crowley, who was flushing scarlet. “Right this way.”

They’d only just made it through the bedroom door before they were kissing again, and Crowley was still being quite aggressive with his tongue. After having the insides of his cheeks jabbed one too many times, Aziraphale took it upon himself to murmur a mild critique and then to demonstrate his preferred methods. Crowley took this in stride and adjusted accordingly.

They did eventually make it to the bed, and Crowley was able to focus long enough to demonstrate the relative benefits of sleeping on one’s stomach versus one’s side. And, determined to be a good student, Aziraphale settled himself behind Crowley, throwing one arm over his waist and drawing him closer.

“And so, uh,” Crowley said, his voice catching in his throat, “now we just close our eyes and think peaceful thoughts and we should eventually drift off.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He felt both his and Crowley’s heartbeats echoing through his body, loud and fast and urgent. Eventually, their heartbeats slowed and their breath deepened, but neither of them fell asleep for a very long time, too wrapped up in wonder and anticipation.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Gabriel had sent a brief on a concept called “intelligent design” that Aziraphale was meant to encourage. Aziraphale had been putting off the reading for weeks; he found the whole thing rather embarrassing.[return]
> 
> [2] That is, he had finished stealing bites from Aziraphale’s plate.[return]  
>   
> [3] Aziraphale did understand, actually. Something similar had happened the last time he had tried to take credit for his role in a human invention, which had been cake mix in the 1930s. Michael had laughed out loud less than thirty seconds into his presentation, and Gabriel still occasionally referenced it as a joke.[return]  
>   
> [4] Aziraphale was still rather perplexed about the time in the early 2000s when Crowley had tried to prompt him into asking about something called "updog."[return]  
>   
> [5] Aziraphale was still trying to work out just how much of a contribution they’d made. He hadn’t expected that they would play such a bit part compared to a gang of eleven-year-olds. [return]  
>   
> [6] He had burned every single one so far.[return]  
>   
> [7] Reader, it was in fact the demon’s first kiss. He had had opportunities in the past, but never the inclination. He had always been worried about his tongue, and in any case, he’d thought the whole thing looked perfectly ridiculous, what with the teeth and the saliva and the undignified noises. He was surprised to learn now that those were all part of the appeal.[return]


End file.
